


My Moms Are Two Kinds of Protective

by TheGoldenShadow



Category: My Little Pony: Equestria Girls
Genre: Adopted!Twilight, F/F, Married Couple, Overweight!Cinch
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-01
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-14 01:34:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29785173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheGoldenShadow/pseuds/TheGoldenShadow
Summary: Twilight was academic to the extreme, but having two principals as her moms didn't lend itself to an easy upbringing. Especially when they tried their best to embarrass her.
Relationships: Princess Celestia/Principal Abacus Cinch, Sunset Shimmer & Crystal Prep Twilight Sparkle (My Little Pony: Equestria Girls)
Kudos: 2





	1. My Mom and My Mother

**Author's Note:**

> A wee commission for jacongross777 on fiverr :D

There’s an ongoing stereotype prevalent in fiction where same-sex parents tend to conform to either one of two parental archetypes; the mom one, and the dad one.

The dad one does the ‘dad’ things, like… putting up bookshelves? Or working, whilst the other parent stays home and looks after the kids. That’s probably the more stereotypical stereotype, isn’t it? All the things that come with earning money for the family and the hard graft that comes with it.

Then the mom one does the ‘mom’ things, like looking after the kids, cooking. Cleaning. All the things that come with staying at home and caring for the family whilst the other parent is out earning money.

“Abacus, Honey,” Mom casually says, eyes closed as she breathes in the fresh heat from her coffee. “Put Twilight’s papers back where you found them.”

I would loosely define them as the provider and carer roles respectively, but society as a whole still likes to organize things based on the established narrative.

… Though said narrative doesn’t make much sense when you think about it. Even before you take into account the existence of same-sex parents, there are still single parents out there that need to adapt into a combination of these two roles, or something else altogether. Or heterosexual parents that don’t slip easily into either- or any definable role. And then you have family units that don’t necessarily correspond to the term ‘parent’ at all; siblings, grandparents. All the families that don’t quite fit the shape of what a family is expected to be. Legal guardians. I’m sure there are even children that have no family as such. They might be on the older end of the spectrum that defines ‘children’, but that doesn’t mean that such a group does not exist.

It’s all a little bit silly, really.

“I’m just making sure that her grades are progressing properly, _Dear_.”

But humans are quite prone to being silly at the best of time.

“You’re checking her academic progress against a chart of expected outcomes.”

“That _is_ what I said, Celestia.”

My moms are… especially prone to this, I have found.

Mom sips at her morning coffee. “Then I would start by ensuring she is healthy and that her current grades are on target. Not by checking the projected outcome against her current grades with a graph.”

Mother only sighs, leaning in on her elbows and rubbing her finger deep into her temple. “But if they’re not progressing _correctly_ over the course of several years then-”

I watch as mom slides the papers across the table, easily collecting them and coaxing them back into a neat pile. “I’m putting these back. Her progress is amazing, and we don’t need her grades from four years ago to prove it.”

“Celestia. _Darling,_ ” she seethes. “I am just ensuring that these new _friends_ of hers aren’t affecting her education.”

Whether my moms are silly or not, I continue to spoon cereal into my mouth. I have an hour before I need to leave and meet Sunset… but leaving the table when said friend is the subject of conversation likely won’t do much to stave off any further arguments.

“I think it’s lovely that she’s going out more and spending time with her friends.”

I think it’s nice that I now actually _have_ friends that I can spend time with, but I appreciate mom not saying that fact out loud.

“She did not have friends prior to this academic year.” Thanks, Mother. So, kind… “I am as pleased as you are that she is socializing on a regular basis,” she adds. Definitely a little kinder, right? “But I am just asking the important question; is it better for her education?”

Kind in her own way. But that’s always been the case, I’ve found. Mom is all about socializing, having fun. Doing what you need to do but taking the time to enjoy yourself whenever you can. I love that about her.

Mother is intent on education; thriving academically and getting where you want to be in the world. Climbing the corporate ladder, beating out all the other women that undoubtedly do the same each and every year. Make yourself stand out.

I love that about her, too.

They just… find it hard to agree on a suitable middle ground.

“As long as Twilight is happy, that’s all I care about,” Mom says. She smiles at me, draining the last of her first coffee. She’ll make another in a few minutes when she realizes that she still has the entire day ahead of her. Then she looks to Mother. “We should _both_ be happy for her, no matter what happens.”

That was not the _mom_ voice. That was the _Celestia_ voice. It’s the tone Mom uses when she wants to get something across that she would very much rather use inappropriate language to convey.

They were together for _years_ before they brought me into the family, but I’ve come to the conclusion that Mom designated herself as the head of the relationship some time ago, despite being the laxer of the two.

Though, that’s why she uses the voice in the first place. Mother likes to make out that she’s the one that wears the pants in the relationship. Mom lets her do so… most of the time. She likes to think the voice lets that illusion stick.

That might work for people out on the street or colleagues at work. Maybe new friends, if they’ve only met up with Celestia or Abacus separately.

Everyone else think they’re about as subtle as a brick thrown through a china shop window.

As is her usual, Mother drops the subject. She ponders whether she can hold her own. Whether she has an argument for this subject and, if so, how long she can stretch it out to gain an advantage. Sometimes it works. Sometimes, she even changes Mom’s mind.

This time, she moves back to her Danish pastry. She takes a hearty bite and turns to me. “Yes. We should be. And we are very happy for you, Dear. I’m just saying-”

“You’re just saying?” Mom asks.

Mother backpedals once more, but only slightly. “I’m just _saying_ that I’m happy you’re keeping up with your studies.”

I decide now would be a decent time to say something. “Thanks.”

“I’m glad we’re all on the same page,” Mom finally says, reaching down plant a kiss on Mother’s forehead. “In fact, I think it might be nice if you invited some of your friends to the house for dinner, one night. For some games. Or to chillax.”

I shiver. “Please don’t say ‘chillax’ ever again.” I don’t think I know anyone that has ever said chillax unironically.

“Yes,” Mother agrees. “Please don’t do that. But do you really think it’s wise to bring her friends home, where-”

Mom just looks at her. Not saying anything, not frowning or changing her calm expression. By all accounts, she appears passive. Pleasantly so.

There _are_ times where Mother is in the right. When there are important ‘things’ going on and a more logical approach is needed. Those are the times where Mom has to back down because, as grand as she is, she has her moments of miscalculation as well.

Today is not that day. “I-I mean, it would be rather unwise to invite her friends here without appropriate planning. Yes! We must plan ahead if we’re having guests.”

Most of the time though, Mom is just messing with her.

She laughs, holding the back of her hand up to her mouth. “Just teasing. Your Mother is right, Twilight; some forewarning would be nice.”

Mother smiles proudly. “Exactly. We are busy women,” she says, starting her second Danish. “We have schedules to upkeep.”

Speaking of schedules, I nod, picking up my bowl and carrying it over to the sink. “I need to get ready. I’m meeting Sunset at ten.”

I just about hear Mom say, “Say hello for me!” as she wanders into the living room as I finish washing up.

I look expectantly at Mother, waiting for her to say something.

She raises an eyebrow. “Don’t look at me; I don’t know who Sunset is. You might as well say hello from our neighbors.” And then she’s back to her pastry, eye skirting the text of some documents still on the table. Not mine, but I also don’t care enough to decipher their true origin.

So, I just smile back at her. They’re both protective, but for very different reasons. And they’re weird, too.

I love them both, regardless.


	2. I Need It To Fit

“I’m starting next week.”

Not this again. “Honey, you’re fine.”

“This blazer is only two years old. I have kept it in prime condition, and I’ve had it dry cleaned every week since then.”

So, she says, but she has other blazers, and she never wears the same one more than twice a week. When you have ten and upwards to choose from, that leaves little room for one particular blazer to get any sort of preference over another.

She tosses it on the bed.

Despite the poorly fitting blazer and its newfound abandonment, Abacus doesn’t seem to feel like letting the issue go quite as easily. “I had to buy a new bra this weekend.”

And there’s always time to get in a little teasing. “Hooray for me.”

I see that little bit of blush on her round cheeks. Just enough to let me know that my words make it through before composure returns.

If nothing else, she’s good that. Weakness and anxiety are hidden as quickly as they appear and almost nothing can break through that wall once it is constructed. She runs a tight ship, and the staff at Crystal Prep have no reason to assume she is ever anything less than perfect.

Watching her fret over her wardrobe and this one blazer that no longer fits her admittedly ample proportions proves very much to the contrary.

“I’m fat,” she whimpers.

Teasing is still acceptable, I deem. Diluted, but accepted. “You’re the one applying negative connotations to that descriptor, Honey.”

It is true; she is a larger woman. The fashionable belts and loose shirts accent her well, emphasizing portions of her body whilst limiting others. Her breasts swell at her chest, far larger than my own but neither are they on display. Abacus is conservative in almost all senses of the word, and her dress code is no different.

Even now, her clothes are business modest, if such a term exists; a lilac shirt, with a thick belt around her waist to take view away from the stomach and emphasizing the pear-shaped figure. Her rear fares much the same, slid inside sharp business pants, the waist hidden by her blazer. Or one that still fits, at least.

“There _are_ no other connotations, Celestia.”

“Not with that attitude, there isn’t. Twilight said her friend Pinkie is rather large. She refers to herself as ‘plus-size’.”

“That’s just a polite way of calling someone fat.”

“Maybe so, but it is one that sounds rather more attractive. Plus. _Positive._ A welcome addition rather than an unwanted one.”

I’m rather proud of my pun, but Abacus doesn’t take notice.

Abacus peers into the mirror, closing the final button at the stomach of her replacement blazer and twisting her body for scrutiny. She turns her back to me, and I take greedy note of her backside as she does. Is it selfish of me? Perhaps.

But that is one of the allotted bonuses when you’re married.

“… I suppose ‘plus-size’ does have a rather nicer charm to it.”

“And several of Twilight’s friends are apparently rather slight, so to have such a _positive_ mental attitude towards her size is rather nice to hear.”

“Yes, it is,” she absently agrees.

We’ve only met a few of Twilight’s friends. Sunset is rather charming… if not rather difficult to deal with, after her last few years at Canterlot High. I don’t appreciate her initial year of vagrant bullying, nor the issues she caused for a large number of students.

Neither do I appreciate how far she went to cover up her tracks.

But I did not have to see her in my home to know that things are different now, even if it is still something that Sunset needs to work on. She has been trying harder in school and she has gone a great length towards repairing the damage she did to other students. I should be worried about her friendship with Twilight, but for now, she has given me no reason to doubt her.

If anything, I believe they are a positive influence on each other. Twilight is coming more out of shell as the months pass and Sunset is more focused on the kinder things in life. They are perfectly similar in so many ways.

… I shall have to discuss Twilight’s obvious crush on her with Abacus at a later date. She has not noticed yet, but Twilight is hardly subtle. It won’t be long before she does and it is best to prepare for any potential fallout before it occurs.

Pinkie Pie is sweet. Too sweet. Fond of them. Fond of making them too, it seems. She is large for her age, but not excessively so. She happily calls herself fat, or plus-size. Or chubby or round or bouncy. It’s pleasant, almost refreshing.

And something I would quite like to see in Abacus.

“It’s common these days,” I continue. “A lot of young women are becoming rather wise to beauty standards and their false expectations. It might be a good idea for you to take to this way of thinking.”

“Typical. You’ll suggest I dye my hair black, next.”

“Tempting, but I think a bit of body positivity would be a good start, for now.”

I stand from the bed, wandering up to my wife. She catches me in the mirror but does nothing to avoid me as I reach my arms around her waist rest my hands over the belt. “A very good start. You’re being hard on yourself.”

“I have a standard to upkeep.”

“And you do upkeep it. I’m not sure gaining or losing weight is going to help change that.”

She rests a hand on mine, letting it linger as her fingers play with my smooth skin. “So you say.”

“I do say.”

My arms tighten into a hug and for all Abacus implies she is against such affection, she falls into it. I feel the sheer softness in her arms and torso. My hand sink ever so slightly with a gentle squeeze of her belly. She is large and warm, and I couldn’t care less if she was any bigger or smaller than she is right now.

“I’m still going to start a diet.”

“You said that last month.”

“Well, I’m saying it again now. I’m going to diet.”

“As long as it’s for yourself and not the people outside.”

“Of course, it’s for myself. When I set out to do something, I succeed. That’s simple fact.”

I snicker. “And the last diet.”

“A lapse in judgement. I wasn’t invested enough.”

“But you are now?”

“Yes, I am.”

“And what’s so different about this time.”

“I _need_ to fit in that blazer.”

Lord knows why this particular blazer is so important to Abacus. It’s a shade darker than periwinkle, and not entirely distinguishable from other items in our wardrobe. It’s… perhaps a mite shinier, with a look of silk about it that her other clothes don’t quite exude. A brand name, perhaps. Or something more personal than that. A commission, maybe?

I suddenly remember that this is my wife and that, yes, I am permitted to ask her such vile questions as, “And what is so important about this blazer that makes you want to diet just to fit into it?”

But I ask the hard questions. We both do.

There isn’t really any other way to become a member of a school’s faculty, let alone the principal.

Abacus stares at me. “Why? _You_ bought me this blazer.”

Oh. Had… I? “Ah…” My words offer no real improvement in quantifying any of the available data drifting around the back of my brain, so I decide to let myself keep talking. It is a bold move, but it can often pay off if you keep your grace about you. “I wasn’t aware, Honey. I… lose track of gifts.”

Occasionally. Perhaps I am too giving. I always remember the smile on someone’s face when they receive a gift from me. I love that moment filled with surprise and joy and the sheer acknowledgement that they are now holding a thing that did not belong to them just moments before.

I take great joy in the purest aspect of giving a gift; the reaction.

I may or may not be a little laxer when it comes to remembering which gift I gifted to any particular person.

But I remember every gift that someone has ever given to me. I sort them, even on Christmas. Or my birthday. I memorize where each gift came from, who it was delivered by and what my relationship is to them. I’m always thankful, no matter how strange or tacky the gift might appear.

Tacky gifts are often the best gifts.

I don’t take any of these items for grants and I make sure to thank each person for the effort. Even if the item was small, or low-cost or sent by mail or delivered in person or sent by email – I will never say no to a gift voucher from _Haute Chocolat_ – or even something as small as a hug. Or a drawing. Or a smile.

I remember each and every one, at least long enough to thank them and ensure that they know I am happy with what they have done for me.

Giving gifts… not so much.

I’ve given many gifts to Abacus over the years. Some met with a better reception than others, but all well intended with meaning behind them all the same.

It is beyond possible that I bought her a blazer. It’s possible I purchased that particular blazer. I know I’ve bought her jackets in the past, but Abacus has never been one for clothes and especially not anything that I would choose to wear. Her dress code has always been more conservative than I would call comfortable. So much tweed and tight shirts.

Abacus glares at me. “You can remember the pencil case I bought for you ‘emergency meeting’ twelve years ago but you can’t remember this blazer?”

In my defense, that was a very important meeting. I was talking to some children in kindergarten and felt it would be out of place if I didn’t have a pencil case like them when we drew pictures together.

Abacus was nice enough to by me some coloring pencils, too. I hadn’t asked for the coloring pencils.

“You know I’m bad with gifts.”

“What was inside the pencil case?”

I sigh in defeat. “Fourteen colored pencils, an eraser and two marker pens.”

She crosses her arms. “And their colors, Dear?”

“… Mellow Yellow and Toxic Sludge Green.”

She pinches the bridge of her nose, sighing again. “I could pick a day, and you’d know which gift to thank me for.”

“And you love me for it.”

“Against my better judgement, clearly,” she replies. But a smile tugs at the very edge of her lips, despite the glare. “You got me this blazer two years ago.”

Two years ago, yes.

“In April.”

April two years ago, yes.

She waited, before adding, “For my–”

Oh, now I feel bad. “Your acceptance speech, yes. Of course, I remember that.” I do, but giving a gift? Not so much. “I am still very proud of you.”

Thirty years as principal at a school is, according to the school board, quite the accomplishment. I couldn’t care less about them, however. So-called ladies and gentlemen in stuffy suits that barely spend a moment in the classroom if they can avoid it.

But for my wife? It’s something spectacular.

Something that I might achieve one day.

Then it clicks. “I gave it to you for the ceremony. Because–”

“Because you said it looked like the jacket I wore when I first started teaching.”

I put thought into my gifts. I put time, and effort and often too much research. Not everyone cares; I don’t suppose I care where a gift comes from, either. So long as someone spends the time to think on what they are getting me.

Even a hug. Forgetting to get me something because they forgot my birthday, and then passing off the hug as a gift is entirely rude. But finding out that it is my birthday without any prior knowledge and giving a hug? I call that wonderful.

I suppose the blazer makes perfect sense, now. “You don’t need to fit in the blazer.”

“Perhaps to your mind, but I would rather keep wearing the jacket my wife got me.”

“And I love you for that,” I say, planting a kiss on her forehead. “I don’t mind you going on a diet. Which you don’t need.”

She huffs.

“So long as you do it because you want to. And not because you think it’ll please me seeing you in a blazer.”

Which is true. I wouldn’t want her to lose weight because of me or think that I’m the one pushing her. Or even if it was to please me in some fashion.

“As long as you want to do it for yourself, then I am behind you every step of the way.”

And she smiles.

Abacus kisses me back.


	3. You Should Buy Those For Sunset

Shopping.

Wandering.

It is not something I readily enjoy, nor is it something I do on a regular basis. But like many things that I do not enjoy, I am willing to make the effort for Celestia.

And Twilight, of course. I imagine many feel the same, where their wives and daughters are concerned.

I was often asked in the early days why we had opted for adoption compared to a donor system. When it would allow us to have at least one of our genes passed onto the next generation. Before I discovered my interest in women, I would have very likely suggested the same thing.

What use in children is there, other than ensuring that your legacy endures from one era into another? To have someone that carries on what you are. Carries on the DNA that you have carried since the dawn of time, one mother and child at a time. Not having children is almost a slap in the face to our species; millions of years of evolution, of struggle and death and life and birth… only for it to end with you.

I certainly didn’t see much point in anything otherwise. After all, what other use did children have?

Even if there did have to be a sperm donor, and even if I would only have my own legacy to spread, it seemed entirely logical for that to be my only choice. My only desire.

“Are you okay, Honey?”

Until I met Celestia.

I had been very on track, when we met. Focused. Intent on achieving academical success and furthering my career in teaching. I had little time for other interests. I had little interest for spending my time doing anything else.

Returning to university had merely been a steppingstone to a larger path. I needed certain degrees to achieve what I wanted, and I was going to get them. If that meant going back to university in my mid-thirties, there was little to no consequence.

I would spend time earning a degree. I would leave with a degree.

My path would continue.

Celestia had been bright eyed and naïve. A recent graduate in her very early twenties. Only nineteen, when the academic year had started. All whimsy and filled with dreams about helping students through the time in their lives where it was needed most.

To call her naïve is perhaps an exaggeration; naïve implies unskilled. Celestia was skilled. _Is_ skilled.

She is infinitely adaptable, and quick to plan. Behind her gentle eyes is a creature that sees the next move in the game whilst the pieces are still be placed. She scans the world, she plans around it.

Many would call her manipulative, if such a thing could be applied to so wholesome a woman. They would call it a negative.

I must admit, I found it attractive, even then. That this pleasant girl in her early twenties could be so cunning in her method, despite all appearance. Despite her _genuine_ appearance as a kind girl who only wanted to help.

If she had been two-faced, it might have been easier to understand. But she wasn’t. Isn’t. She is genuine and kind. Sometimes to a fault.

Yet, she takes control, she takes charge. She can manipulate the world around her with enough information.

I found that attractive, but I suppose it was all the other aspects that affected me more.

I reply to her question. “Of course, darling. Simply window shopping.”

“I don’t recall you _ever_ window shopping.”

I only smirk at her, and she takes it for what it is; an excuse. But she knows enough about me that the excuse is lightly placed. Not something to worry about, or maybe something she’ll be told about it when it becomes important.

She makes me feel… things. Pleasant things that were wholly separate from my work and academic achievements. Even then, she offered a rivalry, of sorts. She was something I had to do more than simply walk past to better. She put up a challenge and I was loath to admit to that.

She helped me see things for their artistic value, rather than the paint used to create them, I suppose. She offered me a new side of teaching.

Not one that I accepted or used in my own method. But one that helped her succeed in her own. And now we are both the principal of a school of our choosing.

How fitting for our relationship.

With that method, came our choices for children. She had always wanted children, for a family. I had always wanted children, to continue my lineage.

It seemed so simple to me, for a time; I shall accept a donor and we would have a family. I would have my genetic legacy and Celestia the family she always wanted.

She did not see it that way.

She had suggested adoption. Taking a child that had no family and offering them one.

Had I been distant to the idea? Certainly. It went against the logic I had held since I realized I was interested in women. It felt alien, to raise this child that wasn’t my own.

But Celestia has a way with shifting perspective. She knows how to make people step one inch to the right and offer just enough of a different perspective that you begin to question your own.

For me, it was legacy.

What was a legacy, if I did not influence it personally?

What legacy was there in my genes that could not be applied to someone raised in my care?

What difference did genes mean after we were dead and gone?

Ancestry on a biological level meant nothing, in that regard. Didn’t it? It was a category that mattered only to those who chose to praise it.

A child will look at you with a beautiful awe no matter where they came from, so long as you raised them with care and ideals. My legacy would endure, so long as I taught it to my daughter.

When I’m gone, that will matter more than numbers and statistics on a DNA test. A greater part of me will remain, one that will influence Twilight for as long as she lives. Her true parents have never influenced her in more ways than physical appearance and inherited health.

Everything else is down to Celestia and myself.

“Speaking of window shopping,” Celestia whispers, leaning towards my ear. “Twilight seems rather flustered about this birthday gift.”

“She is easily flustered, Dear. Best not to think about it.”

“Not even where Sunset is concerned?”

… Ah. Yes, Sunset Shimmer.

Alien creature and menace extraordinaire. Or magical horse, if Celestia is not teasing me.

Even if I have seen Sunset and her… peculiarities for myself, it would only take one smirk from Celestia to wholeheartedly convince me that it’s all some practical joke at my expense.

“I still don’t see the attraction.”

“That’s probably because Sunset is too young for you, Abacus.”

That gets a wry smile out of me, admittedly. “True, but hardly the point. She is hardly a good example to follow.”

“I think she might be good for Twilight.”

The smile fades into a hard stare. “How, pray tell?”

“I love her beyond reason, but Twilight can be rather… introverted. She didn’t have many friends until the Friendship Games. She didn’t have much of anything until she came to Canterlot High.”

A… bitter pill to swallow. Introverted as she is, Twilight is good at hiding her feelings.

She was rather good at hiding her social status underneath exemplar grades and academic achievements. She was always beaming when indulged in work.

So much so that I failed to acknowledge the times when she wasn’t.

Canterlot High is better for her. It offers greater social freedom, at the deficit of educational stimuli. Not a bad asset to have in a school; Celestia has all but convinced me of that. It is not what I would have expected of our daughter.

But Twilight is happier with her new friends. She is stable. She is content.

Nothing in me would take that away from her.

If she keeps up her studies, she will surpass herself. Even in Celestia’s school, even with less focus on lessons, her social interactions and self-esteem elevate her to a level she was only beginning to reach at Crystal Prep.

Everyone learns differently, Celestia taught me. Twilight learns best at Canterlot Highschool.

“True,” I say, again. “It is rather nice to see her socializing.”

“You never would have said that when we first met,” she says with a sly smile.

“About myself? No. But I would not call it unusual for a mother to value her daughter’s future more than she does her own.

“Not at all, Abacus.”

Twilight, to her credit, seems to be taking her future quite seriously.

Today had been a planned trip to the mall. For food, for necessities. To browse some stores for Celestia’s baking supplies and eat dinner in a pleasant restaurant that Twilight and Celestia deem ‘amazing’ because it serves four kinds of chocolate cake.

Their salads are okay, I suppose. But we all must make sacrifices.

And as a planned trip, it is a family trip. And as she is ‘behind schedule’, Twilight deemed this the only time she could go shopping for Sunset’s birthday.

Intelligent to the extreme, but woefully ignorant of when someone’s birthday is. So much like her mother, in a way.

A strange legacy… but a charming one.

Wandering through the mall, several stores have passed us by. I expected many of them to be our destination, but each desperate glance through the window left Twilight’s face more distraught than before and I suppose she is running out of ideas.

“I don’t know what to do,” she mumbles. Her hands flex in and out, her face comically pained. “What you get someone that comes from a magical world with magic spells and magic horses and magic everything?”

“A magic saddle,” I whisper to Celestia.

She snorts through the otherwise gentle murmur of the public around us. Her laughter breaks and I watch as she breaks into a loud guffaw in the middle of the mall.

“I shouldn’t laugh at that!” she blurts through tears.

“You _shouldn’t!_ ” Twilight hisses. “That’s probably offensive. Maybe.” I watch as the mighty gears in her mind wind for a problem far too small for them to calculate. “I mean, who would ride a pony in a world where everyone is a pony”

Celestia barks before I even have a chance to breathe. “It depends if they’re single or not.”

I don’t laugh. I smirk. I expel a little too much air out my noise and hold in a crude noise behind gritted teeth.

Celestia can break down in the middle of the mall enough for the both of us. I’m content keeping that back in public.

Without the context, I doubt there are many people that will understand the joke. Even then, I’m not sure everyone would be intelligent enough to catch on.

Twilight has both context and the intelligence, however. “Mom! You can’t say that!”

“Sorry!” she manages through muffled laughter. Liar. “Sorry, it was too good.”

“She’s a student!”

“Oh, shush. Sunset is a student. The rest of her species is not.”

Such a strange thing to say. Or it would have been several months ago, at least.

And then came the real reason. “We. Are. In. _Public!_ ” Twilight hissed. Her cheeks are darker, tinged with crimson and purple. “I don’t want to hear you talking about that.”

I suppose it is my turn. “It’s perfectly natural, Dear,” I add, face straight.

Celestia snorts once more. It is seldom I enjoy teasing… but Twilight has become an exception, in recent years. Especially now that there are relationships and sexuality involved.

And with two bisexual girls, at that. How very modern.

A few passersby glance towards us as they wander. They will forget about us within the day, most likely. At best, we’ll be a funny anecdote at the dinner table.

But to Twilight Sparkle, they might as well be streaming live on MyStable.

_“Public. Mother.”_

Celestia catches my attention, her eyes begging me to say something as she struggles to hold herself back. Her breathing is ragged, her laughter is contagious, and I doubt she’s going to come back from it easily, any time soon.

“Not in public, Dear, no. That’s a felony and it won’t look promising on your record.”

The blush burns darker and she screams through closed lips and _very_ gritted teeth.

“Twilight, you’re making a scene,” I add, tugging at Celestia’s arm. “Look what you’ve done to your poor mother.”

Still laughing. Her voice is gorgeous. Deep, but calming.

Her laughter is a high-pitched squeal that could shatter diamond, but I find it just as enchanting. Even if I logically shouldn’t.

But I tend to not think logically when it comes to Celestia.

Logic, for that matter, may as well get thrown out the window now that Twilight dabbles in magic.

… Another strange sentence I will have to get used to, if her so-called crush works out.

“I cannot believe you! You’re meant to be the grumpy one.”

“And you’re usually the quiet one. Such a strange day we are having today.”

I continue walking, and that is enough to ease the tension. Celestia settles, laughter spurting in fits of giggles until she could almost be called an adult once more. Twilight drags her feet behind us, following on behind until we’re once again at new store.

Up the escalator, and onto the next floor. We wander past the chosen restaurant and Twilight continues to peer into various stores, muttering to herself and pouring endlessly through a filled notebook. All of the contents on Sunset? Possible. More likely all of her friends, but it is an amusing sight, nonetheless.

Dinner shall have to wait on Twilight, it seems. Not that Celestia seems to have any issue waiting for her chocolate cake. Not with her daughter searching for gifts for her crush.

One more store, and I can sense it.

Celestia has found her moment. She sees her prompt and in a single instance of time, I fear for Twilight’s emotional sanity.

We are passing the Striding Peacock.

Twilight’s head rotates, automatically bobbing from storefront to storefront until she also lands on the Peacock. The black frontage is shining, like a glistening dark marble and behind glass panes stand mannequins. Tall mannequins, large mannequins; especially useful in my case.

Mannequin with many clothes on, and some with considerably less.

The slender model in black, white laced lingerie is quite alluring, I must admit. Her comparable height to my darling wife may offer a slight bias.

“Maybe we should try here,” Celestia says, wandering up behind Twilight as her eyes linger just that little bit too long. “I’m sure there’s plenty of things in here that you’d love to get Sunset.”

Calm.

Calm.

Until Twilight grits her teeth again and pulls her eyes away. “Mom!”

And then Celestia is gone again, laughter overtaking her. But not enough to keep her quiet. “Come now, I’m she- I’m sure there’s something in there.”

“We are not talking about this.”

“Of course not,” I say. “I believe you passed basic biology several years ago.”

My darling wife laughing is, honestly, both a beautiful and ugly sight in equal measure. Her smile can do more to me than all the accolades in the world, but when she breaks down, she breaks down hard.

But she tries to work through it. “I should- Abacus, how about we have a look inside. We could make it an early birthday present.”

Twilight is about to have a breakdown of her own. “Mom! No!” She’s pulling Celestia away, and with each step she defies her daughter. “We’re going. We’re getting food.”

“I’m talking to your mother,” Celestia wheezes. Her voice turns husky. “The house will be empty tomorrow.”

Pulling harder does nothing for Twilight as she tries everything in her power to avoid eye contact with me. With Celestia, or anyone else that remotely exists in this plane of reality.

Everyone is focused on Celestia. If anything, onlookers will remember her more than they ever will Twilight.

But Twilight’s mind does not work that way.

I take a gander at the window again, regardless. My size does not always lend to these kinds of stores. The general public have a taste for _skinnier_ creatures. Younger creatures, too. Like my wife, for that matter.

She is such a stunning creature. Even in her late thirties, I cannot deny that. I doubt I ever will.

That said… she is right about tomorrow. And whilst it would be hard to find a ‘plus-size’ outfit to my liking before then, a glance online at other fine establishments may prove useful. Or maybe even Peacock’s.

I rather think Celestia would praise the thought, if she was not about to wet herself.

I hum at the window, tutting at the lingerie. Gorgeous on Celestia, but…

“Perhaps not, Dear,” I reply. “I prefer you in leather.”

Celestia breaks.

She shatters. And she doubles down into Twilight’s arms, a laughing mess of a woman that I still find myself loving every day.

Twilight simply waves her hands up in the air walks away. She lets her mom kneel down to floor, still laughing as she weakly holds herself up.

I wander over and pull my wife up by the arm. “I think you broke our daughter, Celestia,” I say.

“She would rather it was Sunset!”

Twilight screams, still only feet away and I wonder if I made the right choices in life. If my legacy leading up to this moment is worth all of this.

I kiss Celestia on the forehead and decide that, yes. It is.


End file.
